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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390045">Does Mr. House Dream of Electric Sheep?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterdipity/pseuds/Waterdipity'>Waterdipity</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallout: New Vegas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:47:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,979</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22390045</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterdipity/pseuds/Waterdipity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wish I could hold you.”</p><p>Copy or not, human body or not, lack of red blood cells or not- if House could’ve blushed through the monitor, he would’ve been red.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Courier/Mr. House (Fallout)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Mr. House is a thirsty ass twink pass it on</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I wish I could hold you.”</p><p>House was not bound to any physical body, save for the emaciated excuse for one in the depths of the casino. No, he was far-reaching, far-seeing, he could upload himself into any Securitron he wished. No physical barrier could bind him, he was limitless, a marvel of his own technology. His mind was adrift in the digital world, everything was a slurry of numbers and code for which he could easily manipulate.  Wastelanders told tales that House was not really House, but a carbon copy of him encoded into the massive supercomputer atop the strip, the jewel of the king’s crown. It was fake, no more real than the tabloid headlines of old magazines, but smatterings of truth were speckled in it.</p><p>Copy or not, human body or not, lack of red blood cells or not- if House could’ve blushed through the monitor, he would’ve been red.</p><p>“You-” Stuttering was not very becoming of the entrepreneur, but for some obtuse reason, his mind was reeling a bit from the somber sounding statement. Even through his hazy mind, and the barrier of thin plexiglass between the two, he could see and feel the mauled palm against the cold surface. His voice echoed off the metallic walls and rolling cool steam, “Whatever could you mean by that? You are looking at a borderline corpse, you do realise?” Even he could hear the shakiness in his own voice, the unease and uncertainty. The fear. He cringed.</p><p>He felt the Courier’s weight lean against the glass to look deeper into the glorified time capsule, and for another heartbeat, he feared the worst. He was not a small man, after all. You couldn’t bust people’s heads open with metal pipes, and intimidate even powerful people with less than a glance without being as big as him. The man could rip his walfish body apart if he so wanted. </p><p>A voice low and world weary rumbled out of the courier, “Doesn’t matter much… I seen all those old photos.” The split thumb brushed across the smooth glass, trying to catch a glimpse of those dark, intelligent eyes of the mysterious Mr. House. “You weren’t no less a looker than the women ya slept with.” </p><p>Huh. House got many compliments in the old days, almost all of which were from women, starlets and models looking for fame and fortune. Women telling him how often a flirt he was, handsome, how rich and powerful, how prestigious he was. Trying to feed his ego and win his heart enough to sleep with him. Usually it worked. He recalled the time he’d woken up from a romp with a 20-something actress, and caught her trying to use a turkey baster to inject his semen into her so that she could get pregnant with his child. He felt queasy at the rancid memory despite the lack of a stomach. </p><p>Men were a different story entirely. He only ever got the compliments of a man if it was about business, his image, how much he’d achieved, etc. The same as all the girls, only now the goal wasn’t to sleep with him, it was almost to intimidate him. And unlike all the women, House never fell for these shams.</p><p>But that comment from Jack, that made him take another pause. The man didn’t speak all that much, which frustrated the hell out of him. It made jobs more difficult at first, because the glorified mailman was so used to travelling with people who understood him so well they didn’t really need words. It was frustrating because it hindered progress, and as much as he could sit and twiddle his thumbs in denial, House desperately urged for conversation. Being alone with nothing but the securitrons was more effective on his being than he first estimated, he yearned for someone to banter and talk back to, and with. Jack was a man who communicated through simple grunts and nods or shakes of his brunette hair. Not much of a talker.</p><p>That little comment, A looker… a looker by terminology, meant that he thought he was pretty. And comparing him to the women he so eagerly took on was another confirmation. One doesn’t compare the two without some kind of correlation, so surely, that was what the man was implying? That he was somehow pretty?</p><p>The empty sound of worn roper boots hitting the metal walkway irked him out his thoughts.</p><p>Somewhat desperately, he piped up before his higher brain functions could convince him of reason, “Wait!” The courier stopped, dead in his tracks. Silence and freezing air filled the room. “Do you,” to Jack, he almost seemed to be catching his breath, funnily enough. “Do you mean that…?” </p><p>House, for maybe the third time that night, was surprised again, to hear the man chuckle. Shaking his head slightly, he tipped his filthy leather hat to keep it out of his eyes, "Wouldn't waste my words on it, if I didn't mean it."</p><p>Somewhere deep inside himself, amongst the cold hardware of the monitor or the sterile insides of the stasis capsule, he felt distinctly… warm. Hot, even. He’d been flattered so many times in his earlier years, from so many people looking for the same thing, the same result. It had all sounded identical then, to the point it was something effortless to drone out. But this? Jack had nothing to gain, not a thing. He’d threatened him openly when he ventured into his little secret room, and yet, he still persisted. There was nothing for him to earn from coming here, he’d already made the man his most valuable employee, he just came here to see him. To see him for what he actually was underneath all the bravado and wires. For some reason his brain couldn’t quite click it together.</p><p>For the first time in a long time, he wished he had a body again. His mind wandered to what those hands might feel like, how rough they would be against his ribs, how the bigger man would pull him against his hips. It made him dizzy almost, to think about such an unreachable desire. If only they’d met maybe… what, 200 or so years prior? He would’ve melted.</p><p>“G’night, Mister House.” </p><p>The courier was well out of the dreary cell before House had fully registered his words.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Long Time In The Future</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>THEYRE MARRIED, BITCHES!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh come on now darlin’, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, simple mistake is all.” Jack tried to soothe his decidedly upset lover, trying to calm him down from whatever new thing he’d found to lament about in this new body he fitted himself out with. Even as his limp attempts at comfort went over the other’s head, the courier couldn’t bring himself to stop the grin that cracked on his face. </p>
<p>Robert Edwin House was five-seven. ‘Five-eight, you blind idiot!’ he could already hear his partner fume. Oh, but it got better. Not only was he five-seven, but he was small in his body type too. He swore he could lift the man with one arm, and in fact, that’s exactly what he did when he got the first opportunity. Dark brown eyes dragged all along the angry little firecracker’s body, how terse his crossed arms were in the light of the moon that glowed through the massive windows of the Lucky 38. He had such a pretty frame to him, totally unlike his own burlier and bigger self, far from the scraggly and starving bodies out in the wasteland. There was an air of femininity that he had to the way he was shaped, a kind of delicateness to him that Jack just didn’t see in the many hookers lining Vegas’s streets, a gentle transition to him he could never find. Narrow and slender simultaneously, feminine and masculine married together to make someone he couldn’t really take his eyes off of. House was hypnotic to him, the curve of him outlined in the moonlight, the pristine cleanliness of his suit a disgustingly large contrast to his tattered duster and roper boots. And with the childish pout just waiting to bring itself to light on his face, well… adorable wouldn’t be too foreign a word to describe him.</p>
<p>“Could you stop you’re ogling and answer me?!” The anger in House’s voice was palpable if overreactive, his face turning an irritated pink at Jack’s completely unsubtle attempts at subtlety eyeballing him. Breaking himself out of his staring, “Answer what now? Sorry, you’re just so easy on the eyes, I figured I’d take it in a little longer.” A cocky smirk planted itself on the brunette’s face, and only served to make House all the angrier. Really, all he asked for was his attention focused enough to answer a simple question, how hard was it not to stare for just a few seconds?! </p>
<p>House exhaled, a loud and exhausted sigh from his nose, and clamped his fingers on the bridge of it. “Courier.” He shot his partner a cutting look. “You are not to do that in public.” He jabbed his index finger into that dirty duster, feeling the solid muscle of the other’s chest, and to his regret, forced to look up at the stubbled jaw and scarred face. He felt his temper spike again when that smirk only broadened, a split eyebrow raised at his obvious irritation. He could feel his blood pressure rising every second.</p>
<p>A calloused hand came up to take the accusatory finger out of his chest, only to hold the smaller hand in his own, admiring the little silver ring. He remembered slaving all over the Mojave, dodging powder gangers and raiders alike, ransacking whatever store he could find to come up with something up to the billionaires standards. Which in and of itself was impossible even in those long ago days of cocktail parties and nights spent with women the man hardly knew, he figured anyone who knew House could see that. But, he’d been mulling it over for a long while, and with the reveal of a new body (“synths” he kept bringing up, but Jack was hardly listening through his fascination with how he looked, how they both fit together so well) it was solidified in his mind to pop the question. Victor had encouraged him, Veronica had been excited, even Raul approved. A little halfheartedly, but still, he took what he got.</p>
<p>It was a huge, dismal, dreary little department store somewhere out east, a gloomy area for sure and one he dragged Boone out to against his wishes. Boone may be a man of few words, but still, he’d had a wife. He knew, at least to some extent, what it must be like to ask something like that. The whole building was surprisingly empty, a few ghouls in the staff areas, but nothing that proved a challenge. The real challenge came with the decision making of what would fit his picky partner the most. </p>
<p>The store was ripped apart, most things valuable to a wastelander were all but gone, save for some jewelry in the shattered display cases. He recalled glancing over every one, noting how gaudy some looked with their heavy embroidery, too many rubies, split apart ring bands, at every turn there was just a worse and worse ring to be seen. In the end, and after some barely sentenced structured advice from the sharpshooter at his side, it all came down to three choices: a gold band with a ruby crowned at the top, a rose-gold band with a collection of three diamonds lined up, and a silver band with a single sapphire. He decided on the sapphire.</p>
<p>From there, it was somewhat planned. 	He had a vague idea to take him somewhere, but that was scratched when he recalled how reluctant the man was to go anywhere at the time, his synth body had been fairly new to him still. He thought to maybe put it somewhere unexpected, in a wine glass perhaps, but he remembered how much House seemed to hate surprises. After a stressful shot of whiskey, he settled on the old fashioned way: on one knee, in one hand, present the ring and simply ask. As stressed as he was about the ordeal, he managed to put on a surprisingly convincing façade of confidence, as even his scarily perceptive partner was fooled. </p>
<p>It was like now. He’d simply stopped the other in front of the massive glass pane at midnight (neither of them had favorable sleeping habits) and while House was dressed in a crimson bathrobe from a recent bath, barefooted and all, he himself was still in his courier gear, and stopped him from his drowsy walk to the bedroom by grabbing his hand. “What is it?” He’d asked, rubbed a fist into his eyes trying to clear up his sleepiness, groggy. His heart hammered in his chest as his knee thudded against the metal floor, and seeing how confused his lover was beginning to look didn’t help. The quiet sound of the ring fidgeting in his leather armored palm felt deafening in the silence, only the sound of his rapid heart rate accompanying him. He said nothing, making sure to keep his breathing collected and consistent, slipping the little silver bauble onto the slender ring finger. Hands clasped over the other’s, hoping his worn down gloves wouldn’t be too cold to the touch, before bending down to kiss the knuckles. He’d shut his eyes, imagining the disapproving look on the other’s face, already preparing himself for the onslaught of denial, until their eyes met.</p>
<p>They had been teary. Tears, from Mr. House, a sight he’d never thought he’d live to see. His mouth was parted in the absence of proper breathing, air caught in his lungs, but the barest hint of a smile still lay on his face. “Are you… are you serious?” It was just above a whisper, If it weren’t for his complete attention on the man before him, he would've entirely missed the soft words. Still, he didn’t say a word, just nodded his head, still holding that cold, soft hand. For a brief second, only the sound of an oncoming storm accompanied them, and the shuddering breath of his proposal. Finally, after a few more cursory kisses to the fingers of his almost-fiance, he uttered a single, almost somber sounding sentence: “If you’ll have me.”</p>
<p>It had broken apart whatever previous doubt he’d bottled up when he felt the hand tug out of his grasp to throw arms around his shoulders, quiet, but happy noises bubbling up out of his partner. “Why would you think otherwise, you foolish man?” </p>
<p>“Jack?” Chapped lips were still pressed to that soft palm, when another came up to snap his fingers. “Will you listen to me, please?” The frustration was still loud and clear in the other’s face, only now he looked like he was near pleading with him just to pay attention. Despite how nice it felt to hold House’s hand, he pulled himself away to look him down, fully in the eye. House sighed. “I realize this is a… benefitting outcome for you.” His eyes swept him up and down again at the suggestion, much to the genius’s upset. “Me, here, in the flesh. And you have displayed your… fondness… of that many times.” The faint blush creeping up his face made the courier grin to himself. “But I must insist, dear courier, that you keep those sorts of desires to yourself! In the privacy of the 38’!” The anger flashed again, a look Jack was used to by now. House’s voice raised just below a yell, “If I am to agree to your wants, and roam the Strip as I am with you, then you cannot get handsy whenever the time suits you!” With all the huffing he was doing a mild headache began to bloom in House’s head. His lungs deflated themselves again, his tone was defeated by the fact that Courier six was bound to paw all over him again whether he liked it or not. “It is bad for my image, courier, even you should be able to grasp that.”</p>
<p>“I have been able to *grasp that*, you’re just too pretty not to grasp, Mr. H.” He dared to wink at him, a knowing smile still making his face lopsided. He knew it was a joke, a jab, how could it not be, but it still made that simmering temper rise. “I mean it. No more, how can I put this… in the words of your types, ‘playing grabass’ in the middle of Gomorrah.” The words sounded absolutely foreign coming from a man such as himself, like he was speaking a supplementary language. Jack laughed until his eyes watered up. “Well-” another burst of laughter bubbled out of him at the choice of words, “Well, I would think Gomorrah would be the place to play grabass, Robert. Ya ain’t that innocent, You got Jane as livin’ proof of that.” Another deep chuckle ripped through him when that angry flush painted his face rosy.</p>
<p>“Like I said, courier. I mean it. Do not embarrass me in front of the whole strip, just to… feel on me whenever you see it fit.” That accusatory finger pressed into his chest again. Though another flirt was on his tongue, ‘I always see it fit, you took mighty fine care a’ yourself before the bombs dropped, huh?’ he held back, finally caving. “Alright, alright baby, I won’t push it.” House sighed again, though maybe it wasn’t fully relaxed. “And if you don’t mind, could you please cease with the silly nicknames? I don’t need any more embarrassment.” Those soft hands left his lips now, only to fold themselves behind his back.</p>
<p>“Can’t have any fun, can I darlin’?” “No.” and House smiled. Finally. “No, you cannot.”</p>
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